01 Aug The lost footsteps of the Atlas

There is a gateway to the African adventure that I often pass through. Behind it, time does not exist, it stopped years ago and still awaits the arrival of another camel caravan that will once again cross the colourful Ounila valley, bringing from the distant sands of the Azeffal, gold from Ghana, ostrich feathers from Sudan, kola nuts or incredible stories from remote kingdoms.

The gate is half hidden and can only be reached by zigzagging along a track in very bad condition over a valley where the only company will be a lost herd of funambulist goats perched on their beloved argan trees and some toothless geode seller. Soon you leave behind a small forest of junipers twisted by the desert wind, which always blows with vengeance, hot and suffocating, and some old mines where salt was extracted for the caravans heading towards the desert.

And little else, but after crossing a small gorge of black rocks discoloured by ochre soil, the village of Telouet appears, where the ruins of a palace are still standing and are gradually melting into the red earth. It is the palace of El Glaoui, the Pasha of Marrakech and Lord of the Atlas, who turned this small village into a new version of the kingdom of Scheherazade and the tales of the 1001 nights.

Statesmen, military men, scientists or journalists, all the important figures of the time passed through the Palace: from Winston Churchill to General Patton, Ernest Hemingway, Petain or Montgomery ...And between those marble floors, stuccoed walls and beautifully coffered ceilings, political decisions, palace intrigues, succulent banquets, sumptuous gifts, romances and even some countless scenes that I cannot think of now because I have just had heart surgery, but that my hot mind can't stop imagining that they happened. They say that everything was possible there.

From a balcony of the palace you can see the valley of the Ounila river. Not a bad contrast between the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas Mountains, the ochre cliffs, the intense green of the palm trees and the eucalyptus forests, with an incredibly blue sky. A little further down is the Valley of the Roses at Kelaa Mgoun and beyond that the desert. How quickly one understands when descending through this valley that Kapuscinsky said that in Africa it was first the colour and then the smell. Although I am aware that this is not what he meant when he wrote it.

Continuing along the valley from Telouet towards the great desert, you have to go down at half speed and without hunger, because an empty stomach has always been my worst advisor, watch out for every bend in the road, because in Africa adventure is always lurking. Along the way, the Glaoua built dozens of Kasbahs to protect and support the caravans that came exhausted from the oasis of Audaghost after crossing the dead plains of the Ametlich. You have to stop at the kasbahs of Ameniter or at Assaka, hanging over a great crevasse and at Tamdagh, all of them... I like them all. I remember perfectly well the first time I rode this track, I was in my old bmw, excited, trying to contain my lonely female hormone that by the way carries me by the skull with so much sensitivity and that was totally triggered by the beauty of the landscape.

The day will end with a gin and tonic in a balloon glass on the terrace of Dar Mouna overlooking the ksar of Ait Ben Haddou at sunset while trying to imagine the stories of that ancient past full of splendour.

For me, of all the great characters who passed through Telouet, Rosita Forbes, the gypsy in the sun, has always been my favourite. They say that the British adventurer fell in love with El Glaoui and that she also met El Raisuni there, about whom she wrote a book that was made into a very special film, The Wind and the Lion. I really like the farewell that El Raisuni says to his lover before galloping off into the Atlas Mountains:

We will meet again, Mrs. Pedecaris, when we will both be like golden clouds floating on the wind...